


i dream of you draped in wires

by rime



Category: Persona 5
Genre: M/M, catboy shibari gunplay fuckordie, unfortunately
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:55:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27294556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rime/pseuds/rime
Summary: It makes perfect sense that Maruki would abhor conflict, that his Shadows would be keen to negotiate rather than fight. They're scientists, far too interested in plying him and Akira for data, and now they’ve proposed a cheat-code experimental paradigm: if they’re willing to do some tasks the Shadows will simply clear out, roll a red-carpet path to the auditorium."Thank you for entering our clinical trial," says the Shadow.Maruki's Shadows don't want to fight; they just want to collect data. Wait, are those cat ears?(Akira's the variant, Akechi's the control; initiating catboy experimental protocol.)
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 17
Kudos: 173





	i dream of you draped in wires

The greatest joy of the Metaverse is murdering Shadows. There's nothing like blowing up a row of Hasturs with a well-timed Megidolaon. Or just ripping a Bugs apart with his claws. It's a release of aggression he can't find easily in real life, and these days it's the closest thing he feels to joy, which is exactly why Akechi despises Maruki's Palace so much. 

“You could try kickboxing,” Akira suggests. 

“Kickboxing,” Akechi repeats. A spread of soulless magazines stares up at him from the countertop.

“Yeah,” Akira says. Akechi stares at him. “There’s a new kickboxing gym in Kichijoji. You know, where that cafe just closed.”

Akechi’s stare bores holes in the reception desk.

It makes perfect sense that Maruki would abhor conflict, that his Shadows would be keen to negotiate rather than fight. They're scientists, far too interested in plying him and Akira for _data,_ and now they’ve proposed a cheat-code experimental paradigm: if they’re willing to do some tasks the Shadows will simply clear out, roll a red-carpet path to the auditorium. 

All very in-character for Maruki. The problem was that Akira had actually agreed to it. _We won’t have to fight our way through,_ he’d said. _Save our strength for Maruki,_ _if anything goes wrong._

Like he doesn’t intend on beating the shit out of him from the start. 

So here they are, fidgeting in a waiting room that smells strongly of sanitizer. Even their outfits have vanished, meaning Akechi can’t change his mind and rip the place apart with his gauntlets. It’s almost hard to believe they're in the Metaverse. The experience is indistinguishable from an ordinary checkup at a Tokyo-area hospital, far worse than fighting Shadows.

"These chairs are uncomfortable," Akira says. 

Akechi’s almost genuinely curious. “Have you ever been in a comfortable waiting room?” 

“This is Maruki’s Palace, though. Couldn’t he just make the chairs comfortable?”

“He’s busy rewriting the cognition of all of _Tokyo,_ Akira,” Akechi hisses. “I doubt he has time for chairs.” 

“I still don’t really get why he’d do any of this,” Akira says quietly. 

Akira had spent quite a bit of time with Takuto Maruki last year, Akechi knows. Assisting the good doctor's research. Sharing his problems. _Confiding_. Maruki's actions had come as a shock and a betrayal; he’d probably thought he’d known the man, which was idiotic if you asked Akechi, because it meant he hadn’t learned anything from Akechi shooting him in the head in the first place. 

Disgustingly naive — is that why everyone believes in him?

“And you’ll never have to,” Akechi says. “We just have to kill him.” At this Akira actually looks taken aback. Oh, no. “You can’t possibly think this will end in changing his heart.” 

“It’s worked before,” Akira says. 

“Yes, on that gym teacher. Small-time criminals. I take it that god you shot in the head was receptive to communication?” Akira’s glasses glint. Akechi’s getting to him. Good; Akira’s getting to him too. “Do you understand what’s at stake?” 

Akira is resolutely silent. Akechi is starting to think he doesn’t. 

“Compassion will be your downfall,” Akechi says. “You’d do well to remember that.” 

“It’s never led me wrong before,” Akira says. His glasses glint defensively. “I don’t think he has to die.”

“Did compassion wake your little friends up from their reveries, Akira? Is compassion why you’re stuck in this Palace with me? _”_

But suddenly there are footsteps, the opening and closing of a revolving door, and a Shadow in a lab coat steps briskly into view. A gleaming badge adorns its coat. 

It probably isn't too late to shoot it.

"Thank you for entering our clinical trial," says the Shadow. 

"We'll be granted access to the auditorium after this?" Akira confirms. "No battles required?"

"That is correct," says the Shadow. "Our ruler has no desire to fight you, after all. Your assistance with his research is deeply appreciated."

"Is he watching this?" Akechi asks. "Is he _listening_?"

A pause. 

"Fuck you, Maruki," Akechi shouts at the ceiling. 

"Out of respect for you, the ruler of this Palace does not monitor your actions closely," says the Shadow.

"Piece of shit," Akechi says.

"Though he is aware of your animosity," says the Shadow.

  
  


The Shadow has Akira and Akechi fill out a seven-page-long intake form. It asks if they have pre-existing medical conditions or current medications. It asks whether either of them is sexually active, which makes Akira squirm and Akechi swear explosively. 

Finally it nods and directs them down a too-bright hallway. 

The first room is a calibration room of sorts, where the abilities of several Personas are fused with Akira in quick succession; the angelic aura of Principality, the catlike features of Nekomata, the demonic aspects of Lilith. Stronger, stranger ones. Akira stretches after every fusion, trying out the Personas' abilities and natures: an Akira with horns, with fangs, with claws. A rapidly-oscillating Akira. Akechi can't look away.

Akira chooses Nekomata, in the end. It's a strange choice in Akechi's mind. Some of the other Personas he'd tried out were much stronger -- why not choose, say, Cybele? Or Melchizedek?

"I think it suits me," Akira says serenely. "Don't you?"

Joker's always navigated the Metaverse with feline grace. Given the number of times he's cheated death, nine lives isn't much of a stretch. Cats are unpredictable, introverted, aloof. There's no shortage of parallels. 

"No," Akechi says.

Akira's tail curls lazily. He isn't fooled. 

  
  
  


Akira with ears and a tail is a disquieting sight. It creates the surprising urge to mess with him. Akechi doesn't act on it, except for once, impishly reaching out and tugging the tail on a whim. He'd half-expected a yowl, but Akira had swatted him away immediately. _Don't do that,_ he'd said, sounding strangely out of breath. 

So Akechi hadn't, and had returned to watching him complete whatever tasks the Shadows gave him.

They're odd tasks. The first three rooms are straightforward enough. Akira wriggles through boxes and leaps over crates; the Shadows murmur among themselves, take notes. It's almost scary how well Nekomata suits Akira. It makes him stronger, faster, more agile than before. Disquieting. 

Around the fourth room the tasks start to vary unpleasantly. Akira is told to think of a sad memory, then a happy one. His vitals are measured. The happy memory makes Akira purr, which makes Akechi’s mouth unpleasantly dry. The sad one -- well, he looks much the same. 

The Shadows have him destroy a moving target, time his reactions, and finally escort them into the fifth room, nodding approvingly.

The fifth room doesn't have any tasks. It's a check-in, the Shadows say, for both of them. A brief psychometric evaluation. Separate rooms, of course. 

A Shadow leads him away from Akira, down a narrow hallway and into a well-lit room with two chairs, separated by a desk. Akechi takes the chair closer to the door. 

The Shadow seats itself opposite him and takes a rattling breath.

“Save it,” Akechi says. “I don’t plan on answering any of your questions.”

The Shadow actually hesitates. 

“For that matter, this experiment isn’t supposed to involve me at all,” Akechi says. “Am I right? In which case, why exactly am I here?”

“You are correct,” says the Shadow. “These protocols were designed to evaluate the emotional and physical responses of the active participant. But we cannot help but notice that your own emotional responses are increasingly volatile.” 

“Oh, fuck off,” Akechi says immediately.

“We would like to assist you, if possible. Our Ruler does not wish you to suffer.” 

"And that's why he brought me back to life," Akechi says. "To alleviate my suffering. Don't you think I would have suffered less had I simply _stayed dead?"_

"Akira Kurusu would suffer more," the Shadow says. 

"And it's all about him, isn't it," Akechi says.

The Shadow says nothing. 

This entire conversation is a half-step away from screaming at himself in the mirror. Only the mirror is a Shadow in a lab coat and an impenetrable mask, questionably sentient, _definitely_ reporting to Maruki. The situation is farcical. Farcical with a knife's edge of terror bleeding through: Akira is too kind. He might make the deal. He think Maruki can be reasoned with, he's hopelessly naive, he probably thinks they’ll go kickboxing. 

"I want to kill you," Akechi says, feeling oddly calm about it. "I want to take my time killing every last Shadow in this Palace. I want to feel Takuto Maruki's neck snap between my hands." 

Picturing it doesn't bring the usual rush. He just sees Akira, sad.

"Your cortisol levels are stabilizing," the Shadow says. 

"Do you feel fear?" Akechi inquires, suddenly curious. "Are you afraid when I say things like that?"

"I do not know how to answer," the Shadow replies, after a pause. 

"What do you think of your owner's doings?" Akechi asks, because he's genuinely curious. “Distorting reality? Actualizing the goals of the masses?”

"I am in favor," says the Shadow. "Ending the suffering of mankind is a noble goal."

"And if you had to die for that to happen?" says Akechi. 

"That I do not know," says the Shadow. 

  
  
  


Akechi exits the room feeling vaguely hysterical. He then breathes through his hands for a good thirty seconds before realizing that these rooms are _not_ soundproof at all. 

But it's not without apprehension that he approaches Akira’s door. Partly out of wariness — he'd rather not Akira catch him listening in -- and partly out of... nerves? Does he think Akira's going to talk about him?

Yeah, he does. Akechi flattens himself against it, breathes, and listens.

“Heightened sensitivity and receptivity,” says a distorted voice. That must be the Shadow’s. “Are there any other side effects you wish to report?” 

“None.” That voice is Akira’s. 

“Your cooperation is appreciated,” the Shadow says. “Approximately three rooms remain before completion. Please let us know if your symptoms continue.”

The scraping of chairs. It’s over, then. Akechi prepares to surreptitiously unflatten himself from the wall, when —

"Is there anything else you wish to share?" the Shadow says. “Anything on your mind?"

The chairs stop scraping. There’s a long pause, followed by a breath.

"Yeah, actually," Akira says. "Sure. I'll just unload."

Surely Akira can't intend to actually provide Maruki with his deep-seated fears and weaknesses? Does he not understand the position they're in? Akechi gapes, and then gapes _more_ , because -- 

"I'm stressed," Akira says. His voice has changed utterly; it's gone neutral, slack. This isn't the Akira Akechi knows. He's not performing anymore. With a nameless Shadow, Akira can take off his mask completely, the way he never would with his _attempted murderer_ , a nasty little voice whispers, _what did you expect?_ "I can't sleep. I'm terrified of this reality. My friends don't -- they don't remember me, they don't remember what we did together. The only one that does -- I'm not even sure he's a friend."

In the silence, Akechi hears the greedy scribbling of the Shadow's pencil. 

"I think he might kill me, if he could," Akira says. "Did you know? I really thought he liked me for a time. Of course before November that was all an act, and, I mean, not that Akechi really likes anyone -- but, as far as he does. I thought we got along." 

"What are your feelings toward Goro Akechi?" says the Shadow. In its distorted voice Akechi hears an almost human interest. "The Ruler of our Palace is interested in this question.”

"I don't think I can talk to you about that," says Akira. 

“He is sincerely interested,” says the Shadow. "Though he would not make you answer against your will."

“I like you, Maruki,” Akira continues. “But I don’t trust you, not anymore. And aren’t you smart enough to know how I feel about him, anyway?”

Part of Akechi wants to scream _then_ _why are you telling him this?_ But most of him is caught on the tremble in Akira's voice. 

“Having him back, fighting side by side — it’s too convenient,” Akira whispers. “God, I hope I’m wrong, Maruki — I won’t forgive you. It’s too cruel.“

Scrambling noises, the kicking of a chair, the flutter of papers falling. The sound of a cocked trigger. And suddenly he understands exactly why Akira had felt so comfortable oversharing.

  
  
  


Akira emerges from his room splattered in Shadow-blood, holding Joker's gun in his hand. His pupils are dilated. 

"It got aggressive," Akira says. 

There's absolutely no tell that he's lying. It's entrancing. It leaves Akechi breathless. And there's no time to call him on it, because soon enough they're in room number five, the final room. 

This last room is different from the others. Every other room has required the successful completion of some finite set of tasks: shooting a dozen targets, navigating a maze, and so on. This room doesn't have any kind of predefined task in it. 

Another lab-coated Shadow is watching quietly from an observation chamber. 

"This experiment tests emotional response," the Shadow's voice crackles out over the intercom. "The task is to lower your stress levels."

Akechi frowns in annoyance. Levels, plural? 

"Isn't he the control?" Akira says.

"He is an active participant for this room," the Shadow says. 

The precise task is to lower a number that Akira and Akechi don't have access to, but the Shadow-proctor does. Some kind of stress-measuring device has been installed in the room; when its reading falls below a certain threshold, the door will click open, and they'll have secured a route to the auditorium, fighting-free.

It sounds simple enough, except that the meter on the wall reads absurdly, dangerously red.

“Are you stressed?” Akira asks him levelly.

“No,” Akechi shoots back. “Are _you_ stressed?”

“I’m just fine,” Akira says. 

“At least one of us isn’t,” Akechi says, staring pointedly at the wall. 

Thirty minutes later, the door hasn't budged. 

"I'm not stressed," Akira says. "You're stressed."

“I’m not stressed,” Akechi says, in a normal, un-stressed way. 

“You are definitely stressed,” says Akira. “I actually think you’re more stressed than me.” 

"I'm _not_ _stressed_ ," Akechi hisses, which is completely false. It's the falsest thing he's ever said. Akira’s confession has been doing laps through his skull for the last forty minutes, stabbing him with a migraine of emotion. Worse, a compulsion to _apologize._ He’s not even sure what for! Not for attempted murder, not exactly; not for existing, it’s not his fault Maruki brought him back; does he just not like hearing Akira so sad?

He wants to apologize, and fuck him, and maybe fuck him by way of apology. Mostly he wants to put a bullet through Maruki’s head and then take Akira out for drinks. 

“Just tell me what’s stressing you out,” Akira says. 

“Could we agree,” Akechi grits out, “that perhaps we’re _both_ stressed, and that’s why this is taking forever?”

“Sure,” Akira says. His tail waves like a reed.

The barometer is reddish-orange, now. Or maybe it hasn’t changed colors at all. 

At the one-hour mark, more and more objects begin manifesting in the room. By two it’s a veritable play-space. A scratch-post has shimmered into being; laser pointers litter the floor. The barometer on the wall reads an obstinate orange. Even the Shadow proctoring the room is fidgeting, like it hadn't expected this to take so long. 

Akechi thinks they've got the wrong idea. If they want the stress levels here to decrease, they should be catering to _him_ instead of Akira. Bring him a couple Shadows to slaughter. 

It would be beyond cathartic to tear through some Shadows. No stress relief like murder. Well, perhaps one thing, but that's — 

Hold on.

Every senseless puzzle piece slots into disbelieving place. _You will be an active participant in this experiment. Doesn't Maruki already know how I feel? Are either of you sexually active?_ Stress relief. Stress.

"You can't be serious," Akechi says out loud. 

Akira’s ears swivel instantaneously.

"It's nothing," Akechi says, because the alternative is explaining that they're being manipulated into fucking by the world's most meddlesome doctor. Oh, absolutely not. 

But maybe he's reading too much into it. That's devious even for Maruki. In fact — Akechi scowls — it's very likely he's reading into it, isn’t he? Watching Akira complete these tasks, wriggle and writhe about… it’s dangerously easy to imagine him splayed on his back, blinking up at Akechi slowly. Ears folded back in submission. Is the cat thing adding to this? What the hell? 

Still. It would work. 

And it's not unappealing.

"You're staring at me," Akira says. His tail is twitching. 

In an hour, Akechi decides, glancing at his watch. He can bring it up then. He can give himself an hour before debasing himself in that way. In the meanwhile, he'll meditate. Do nothing. Give Akira plenty of time to solve these puzzles, scratch these posts, or whatever has any hope of unlocking this door.

  
  


But he doesn't need to wait that long. Ten minutes later Akira manages to entrap himself in a ball of yarn, which doesn’t sound physically possible to Akechi until turns and actually sees it: Akira hopelessly ensnared in a thready crimson mess of his own making. 

Akechi lost to _this_? The fly who got bored and invented the spiderweb?

"Akechi," Akira says, weakly. "I need help."

"It's a ball of yarn," Akechi snaps. "It can't possibly have trapped you, just -- slice your way out."

"But it has," Akira says. "I can't get out."

He wriggles a bit to prove his point. It works a little too well; he lets out a small yelp, having entangled himself further in the yarn.

"If it's trapped you, it's because you want to be trapped," Akechi says, and stops as he says it. 

Because he wants to be trapped.

That's it. This is the cognitive world. Akechi reaches out, plucks one of the threads of yarn. It doesn't have any softness or give to it at all; it feels more like a thin rope, a taut red wire. He runs his hands down Akira's arms, tugging at the tangles of yarn he meets along the way, just to check. Rope again. It's Akira's own cognition that's doing this, he must want to be tied up like this for some reason, but why would he -- 

Akira makes a sound, then. It's a soft little sound, barely audible, but Akechi hears it, and it sends his pulse skyrocketing as everything else tumbles into place. 

Akira is keeping his face very still. That's a tell all its own. Akechi casts a quick glance up at the observation booth; the Shadow's stepped out. Divine providence, surely. 

"Do you?" Akechi says, very quietly. "Do you want me to trap you?"

Akira licks his lips. 

"You look good like this," Akechi murmurs. He really does. Beautifully, uselessly splayed.

Akira closes his eyes. His breath flutters. 

Well, then.

Kissing Akira he'd always imagined as a competition. A natural extension of their rivalry. This is not like that at all. It's better, far better, and who _needs_ rivalry when he can dismantle Akira like this? His hands wander, wander more greedily; Akira melts into it and everything he does with a mindless little hum, it's unimaginably heady and right now Akechi doesn't need to _think_ this much. His fingers meander down the ropes, slip below Akira's waist. He's so sensitive. Was he always this sensitive? He doesn't remember that being the case in November -- but doesn't he pay Akira far closer attention, now? 

"Akechi," Akira says hoarsely. "What are you doing? You're..."

Akechi thinks it's obvious what he's doing, to be honest, since he's rustling down Akira's pants as they speak. But he doesn't fault Akira for not understanding. 

Before today he'd never dreamed of getting on his knees for Akira. But how else can he say it? 

"Apologizing," Akechi murmurs, and licks a single stripe down Akira's length. 

Akechi has no practice with this, and he doesn't intend to get more. This is a one-time deal. The only person who's going to see him like this is Akira. He’s the only person he'll ever do this for. So he doesn't know what he's doing, but it doesn't seem to matter, from the glimpses of Akira he's getting. Akira is positively wrecked; his hands tremble uselessly against scarlet thread; he's straining against his holds, ears twitching, tail pathetically enmeshed in the wire. 

"Fuck," Akira breathes.

He's too quiet. Akechi pulls back, wipes his mouth, glances up. 

"You can be loud," Akechi murmurs. "Can't you?" He licks his tongue once or twice at the very tip of Akira's cock, the way _he'd_ done, back in November. Akira makes a soft, strangled sound. 

Akechi does it again, more precisely; this time a full-fledged moan escapes Akira.

The fact that Akechi did this to Akira, is _doing_ this to him, suffuses him with triumph. Anyone could kill Akira: any corrupt SIU agent, any one of Shido's goons. Akira's far too willing to sacrifice himself. What he's not willing to do is bare himself so openly. Always wielding a Persona. Always wearing a mask. Never vulnerable, never like _this_. Inscrutable Joker, utterly unravelled at Akechi's hands? Akechi doesn’t deserve this. 

"Akechi," Akira says shakily, "you feel so good -- Akechi -- fuck, I'm --"

Good, Akechi thinks, deliriously. Akira needs to feel good, so good that he can forget all of this, if only for a moment. And maybe if Akechi gets this right these desperate movements of his mouth will convey his feelings to Akira in a way his words never will. It's a ridiculous, hopeless thought, but the kernel of truth buried it is hopelessly real; so in that moment Akechi concentrates, hollows his cheeks, and Akira convulses.

  
  
  


When it's over Akechi spits it out. A curious taste, bitter and unpleasant. Not so unpleasant he wouldn't do it again. 

Akira is splayed on the floor, cheeks flushed, lips parted. He'd look asleep if not for the twitching ears, his weakly swishing tail. The bindings seem to have uncoiled and are re-obtaining a ribbon-like state; they respool as if by magic, flutter to the ground. Yarn again. A fascinating application of cognition. 

The barometer on the wall is... yellow? 

"Akechi," Akira says, strangled, from the floor. 

Yellow isn't green. 

"Akechi," Akira says again. "Please." He doesn't sound well, Akechi realizes. He sounds short of breath. No. A memory stirs within him, then, from several hours ago; a glib back-and-forth, Akira's breathless voice -- that hadn't been breathless?

Something about receptivity.

"Is this -- " _part of the experiment,_ Akechi starts to say, but his mouth dries completely when he turns and sees Akira, really sees him.

He's debauched. He looks glassy-eyed, and feverish, and begging to be touched. Like that hadn't done anything to him but riled him up. He doesn't look like someone who just came in Akechi's mouth. 

Seeing inscrutable Akira, master of composure, like _this_ , sends a lightning bolt of heat through Akechi's gut. 

"It's the fusion," Akira says. Is he rutting against the floor for friction? Is he trying to? "It's... getting worse. Please."

The fusion made him this needy? Has he been like this all _day_?

Akechi perches carefully on the ground by Akira, grabs his tail in response. It's light and almost feathery in his hand. Twitchy. He lets his fingers wander down as the tail twitches more, down to where it meets the small of Akira's back and -- yes, _there_ ; Akira openly mewls.

"You like that," Akechi breathes, wondrous. 

Something crackles to life over the loudspeaker. Of course Providence wouldn’t extend this far. 

“The cortisol levels of both participants are stabilizing,” the Shadow's voice echoes over the intercom.

Akechi pulls the pistol from his pocket and aims precisely. The first shot takes out the loudspeaker. The second shatters the glass of the observation chamber and pierces the Shadow through the head. 

Akira lets out a thin whine. Did he want it to _watch_? Oh, that's filthy. Or maybe he’s just that turned on? 

Wait, no, he’s looking at the gun.

Akechi looks down at Akira, breathing heavy, lips parted, and understands.

"Suck," he says, thrusting the barrel of the gun into Akira's open mouth. 

Akira does. 

“You're shameless,” Akechi whispers, in shock and delight. Akira's only response is a moan; he's giving the gun his undivided attention, laving it with eager strokes of his tongue. "You're enjoying this far too much." Shit, he likes that too. He can't talk back, but it's evident from the way Akira's eyes flutter momentarily shut, the noises low in his throat. "Don't tell me you've imagined this? Isn't that depraved even for you, _Joker_?"

Akira barely seems to hear him, so intently is he sucking. 

"I bet you could come just from this," Akechi murmurs. Another tiny whine from Akira. God, that's an appealing thought. Not laying a finger on Akira, making him rut against Akechi helplessly for all the friction he can find, deprived and desperate for relief? It's enough to fan the flame of interest in Akechi's gut.

But far more appealing is touching him. 

Akechi withdraws the gun; it slides from Akira's lips with some resistance, a wet _pop_. He tosses it away.

Akira blinks, startled, before understanding. He spreads his legs. 

The way he understands what Akechi wants gets to Akechi more than any aphrodisiac. 

They don't even need lube. Some ridiculous Nekomata property, no doubt. Akira's _wet_. It's ludicrous. On a normal day, in a normal state of mind, Akechi might find time to be taken aback by it. Right now he's preoccupied sheathing himself in Akira, in a single, shaking thrust. 

Akira keens. His back arches beautifully. 

"You're so eager," Akechi says, voice low. 

"Can't... help it," Akira pants. "Need... this. Need... you."

Akechi thinks the sight before him is acting on him much the same way. His fingers claw into Akira's hips shakily. Akira takes him so well. Fuck him for ruining Akechi for anyone else. Fuck him for everything.

Akechi's plan is to go slow. That plan is immediately, sorely tested by the _noise_ Akira makes at his first thrust, a shaky whimper that sends a shudder all the way through Akechi.

He's so needy, so pliant, that all thoughts of going slow disintegrate, replaced by the burning need to fuck him like a ragdoll, so hard he can't see straight. 

Akechi shakes the hair out of his eyes, concentrates. He needs to savor this. _Focus_.

Another slow, ragged thrust, though, and Akechi's willpower is evaporating; the clinging heat, the friction, all of it is fuzzing over his senses. Akira feels so good. He wants to ruin him -- he wants to make him limp out of the Palace, bruise him into the next day --

On the third thrust he hits something inside Akira, and Akira cries out, and the plan goes to shit. 

Akechi fucks him fast and brutal. Akira's cries are unintelligible; he's letting out a stream of soft breaths and choked gasps, his tail thrashes uselessly against the floorboards, he's beautifully flushed. It's the most erotic sight Akechi's seen in his life. Perhaps he'd planned on savoring it, but it's so heady that he loses himself utterly in the savagery of it. All that matters is Akira writhing under him as Akechi fucks him ruthlessly and for his own pleasure, Akira's lidded eyes and little sounds, Akira exhaling shakily, saying _Akechi, I'm so close, Akechi, god, fuck, please, yes._

  
  
  


The barometer is green. 

Well, Akechi thinks blearily, if that hadn't made it green, nothing would.

Akira's still strewn across the floor. Akechi can't really blame him; he had not been gentle. Akira doesn't like it gentle, after all. Neither of them do.

"Akira," Akechi says. "We can't stay here." 

Akira's eyelids flutter gently. Not asleep, but not awake either. 

"We should get going."

No response. If anything, even less of one; the rising and falling of Akira's chest is beginning to resemble REM sleep.

If Akechi's being honest, he's fatigued, too, after all that. And maybe it wouldn't do any harm to take a break. To sit with Akira on this floor and rest for a moment. The door is still unlocked. In the worst case, they know how the mechanism works; they could probably unlock it the same way again, if they had to, and… round two wouldn't be so bad. 

Akechi spends a little more time thinking about how exactly round two might go before swearing softly and turning back to Akira. 

"Did it feel good?" Akechi murmurs. "Did I make you feel good, Akira?"

No response. What was he expecting?

Akira looks so peaceful. It occurs to Akechi that he's never actually seen Akira sleep before. This is another way to see him vulnerable, exposed. The soft underbelly of Akira Kurusu, inside Joker's shell. 

When he wakes up it'll be another story. Akira's armor will slot neatly back into place. Whose wouldn't, with the fate of the world riding on them?

He sighs into his hands, watches Akira twitch. Wonders what he's dreaming about. 

"I hope so," Akechi says, very quietly. "I hope you were able to forget all of this, if only for a while. I hope you don't plan on _reasoning_ with Maruki tomorrow," he adds, with a sudden surge of distaste. "And..."

The words lodge in his throat, unsaid: that hole in his memory, the way Maruki had looked at him, that depth of pity. 

He finds himself reaching out, running his fingers through Akira's hair, stopping at the ears. Surprisingly soft, silken, cartilaginous. Just like a cat's. Akechi scratches behind them idly; Akira makes a small, contented noise. 

"Don't be too angry with me," Akechi murmurs. 

He traces patterns through the curls of Akira's hair, lightly, gently; Akira still does not stir, but his chest rises and falls in tiny movements. His breath is soft. His ears tremble. 

Overhead, the fluorescent lights dim. The barometer pulses green. As the minutes tick on, a low purring sound fills the small room. 

**Author's Note:**

> no excuses here. title is from interpol’s [all fired up](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RM2uRsG5Ulc). can’t do kinktober properly so i tossed ten tropes in a blender enjoy the nonsense!
> 
> i'm on twitter, [unfortunately](http://twitter.com/letrasette)


End file.
